The mind rewinds to 27 years ago, when I first covered the Canadian women’s curling championship tournament. It was held in Kelowna, B.C., which was the destination for my first airborne excursion on behalf of the Regina Leader-Post.

We took off in a snowstorm and I was petrified. In a futile attempt to allay my fears, I had picked up a newspaper — always a good idea — with the intention of focusing on something other than my aviation-related angst.

So much for that grand plan. Somewhere around Page 12, there was a story pertaining to some issues regarding airline safety.

Cue perspiration.

I looked out the window and could barely see the wing. What happened to the wing? Where did it go?

The snow was falling so furiously that I could barely see outdoors.

Cue trembling. More perspiration.

We went from Regina to Calgary to Kelowna and I was a mess the entire time, even though the flight was smooth.

Thankfully, I had a plan for the return journey. Upon arriving at the Kelowna airport, I made a beeline for the lounge and quenched my thirst without moderation.

A few beverages, I figured, would calm me down.

Wrong!

Instead, I was a drooling paranoiac once it was time to board the aircraft. Worse yet, there was not a jetway — eek! — so we had to walk on to the tarmac.

You can imagine how dignified I was at that moment.

I turned to Peter Loubardias, who had been covering the Scott (now Scotties) Tournament of Hearts for CKCK Radio, and began to disassemble.

“Pete, this thing won’t fly,” I spluttered. “It’s too big!

“It’s too big, Pete. It’s too big … “

We boarded the flight and were informed that the travelling time to Calgary would be 41 minutes. It was, I assure you, the longest 41 minutes of my life.

Complicating matters, it was a night flight.

“Pete, it’s dark out. The pilot can’t see the mountains,” I blithered. “How will he get around the mountains?”

By the time we arrived in Calgary, I was coated in sweat. I looked like I had just completed a triathlon.

So here I sit, more than a quarter-century later, returning from another Scotties — an event that was held in Grande Prairie, Alta.

We are on a Bombardier Q400 and I am directly to the left of a propeller.

The thought of flying on a turboprop once mortified me. My first such experience was in May of 1993, when I flew from Toronto to Sault Ste. Marie, Ont. (site of the Memorial Cup).

The flight was bumpy and I was grumpy. I pulled out my Radio Shack computer and attempted to write a story, only to select characters at random.

When I revisited the story, having happily landed, every third word had a number or punctuation mark in the middle.

Given the remarkable technological advances, I am now composing an in-flight column on an iPhone6.

I am completely relaxed and, in fact, enjoying the flight.

Once again, I had to walk on to the tarmac to board the plane. No problem.

So what changed? Why am I not shrieking at this moment? Why am I not being given a needle or being fitted with a Hannibal Lecter mask by a friendly flight attendant?

There is turb-b-b-b-bulence. I used to hate this. Now? Whatever …

Being bitten by the travel bug helped me. My dislike of flying was eventually counteracted by my love of New York and other destinations.

Another breakthrough occurred in 2005, when my wife and I headed to Mexico for Bob Hughes’ wedding. At the Regina International Airport news-stand, there was a paperback book that explained everything about flying. I bought it and was reformed. The book convinced me that, really, I had a better chance of winning the Mr. Olympia contest than I did of incurring even the slightest injury on-board a flight.

And all was calm.

I used to hate takeoffs. But, leaving Grande Prairie, I felt the surge of the engines and found it exhilarating. There was not a millisecond of worry.

The captain just updated us. We are on the final descent into Edmonton. This is progress, because I now know where I am.

The biggest problem I will face: What to do during a 2 1/2-hour layover in Edmonton?

This Week's Flyers

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